


Confusing conclusions

by Snoozydog



Series: Sleeping arrangements [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Drunk John, Dubious Consent, Feelings, Jealous John, M/M, Male Friendship, Missed Opportunities, Mycroft's Meddling, Pining Molly, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-09-02 10:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: John realises something important but makes a detour before trying to come to a conclusion





	1. Going off rail

They don’t get very far. 

An insistent knock on the door followed by a “Hoo-hoo” breaks them apart.  
John is the first to let go, surprisingly fast considering how turned on he is. But it’s their landlady on the other side of the door and he just can’t, she’s old for God’s sake. No need to expose her to any surprises, although she is the first person who already from the beginning thought John and Sherlock were already sleeping with each other when they moved in. Must have missed all the other candidates Sherlock is sleeping with…  
The sour jealousy stabs him as he arranges his clothes while Sherlock rises without a word and moves over to his chair just as the door opens and Mrs Hudson walks inside.

“I thought I heard you two up here, sounded a bit like a fight. “

She enters with a tea tray, not really looking at them and therefore missing all kinds of telling clues.  
John manages to calm himself down, willing his heart to stop pounding so frenetically in his chest. Had this really been happening? The kiss and everything? Was he about to have sex with Sherlock Holmes, right there on the living room floor? The thought is mind blowing and also very arousing. He turns so she won’t be able to see his face clearly and sits down opposite Sherlock, crossing his leg over the other to hide his erection from view.  
Sherlock is looking just like his usual self he notes, as if he hadn’t been pinned down to the floor by John just a minute ago. Not a hair out of place. Or at least not more than usual.

Mrs Hudson has been talking the whole time and evidently John has learned Sherlock’s method of being able to tune her out because he doesn’t really hear what she’s saying until she mentions Lestrade’s name.

“…he was here earlier. You were both out and he was in a hurry, so he couldn’t remain waiting for you to show up. He really is such a gentleman, always so warm and polite. I wish you would treat him a little better, Sherlock. He is a detective inspector after all.”

“Why would that matter?” Sherlock huffs from his chair, his usual snarky self again. John’s hackles immediately rises though. Lestrade’s name will do that from now on. 

“He is a man of the law and he has always been so kind to you, no matter how rude you are to him and his colleagues.”

“I’m not rude, I’m merely stating facts when pointing out their stupidity.”

“That’s exactly what I mean by rude, young man. “

She looks at him reproachfully but of course Sherlock doesn’t care. He just lifts his steaming cup of tea to his lips and takes a sip while Mrs Hudson frowns at him and John feels about ready to explode. This is all too much. 

Of course Lestrade’s been here sniffing around. Because he and Sherlock kissed and God knows why but John feels the sudden urge to smash something with his bare hands. But he can’t, not when Mrs Hudson’s standing there, it would upset her and he has never lost his temper the way he did earlier this afternoon. And now he’s reminded of why that was in the first place.  
He senses how Sherlock is scrutinizing him from his chair, reading the shift in his emotions and suddenly it is all too much so he simply rises from where he is sitting, mumbling something incoherent to Mrs Hudson while grabbing his coat. The next thing he knows he’s pounding down the stairs again, just like a couple of days ago, when he found out that Sherlock wasn’t that unapproachable asexual creature John always thought him to be. But this time it’s somehow worse, because now they have that kiss between them and John doesn’t know how he feels about that and he doesn’t know where he is standing with Sherlock or where Sherlock and Lestrade are standing with each other either.  
He’s never been good at this and with the added anger, pent up sexual frustration combined with a dash of jealousy and mixed feelings about his sexuality he just forces his way out into the fresh air outside, free of tempting flatmates, infuriating detective inspectors and a carpet that could very well have been the place for his first sexual experience with a man he never really admitted he liked in this way before.

He walks until his leg starts to throb and eventually the only place he can come to think of is Mike Stamford’s office at Bart’s.  
Mike knows John well enough to know when something has happened but also when not to probe too much. They go down the pub when Mike’s finished his shift, successfully managing to avoid Molly or anyone else connected to Sherlock who also works at Bart’s, and they order two large beers, talk about everything that doesn’t have anything whatsoever to do with a specific consulting detective.

It works surprisingly well as long as John’s sober. When he reaches and moves past his drinking limit he starts to babble and inconclusive sentences begin to form a puzzle that leads to a somewhat hazy picture of just what the hell has been going on between John, Sherlock, Lestrade and two other sods by the name of Donovan and….Dimmock was it?  
Mike shakes his head at the mess of it all and calls for a cab to take them both home to his place for the night. John faceplants straights into the sofa and starts to snore seconds after. Mike turns him on his side so he will be able to breathe easier before going into his own bedroom to get undressed. Luckily his wife is out of town. She wouldn’t have liked this at all. 

He considers phoning Sherlock for a second but then decides against it. He is John’s friend first and foremost and John’s in a hell of a state thanks to Sherlock’s sexual mind games. Let the man worry for once.  
Because Mike Stanford knows Sherlock just as much as he knows John and he knows that Sherlock cares for his flatmate in a way he probably never cared for another person in his life. It doesn’t mean that he feels what John is obviously feeling for Sherlock, who knows if he’s even capable of that kind of affection, but he cares none the less and is probably worried right this moment that John might not come back.  
At the same time John is too possessive. From what Mike gathered from the slurred speech at the bar there has been two types of kisses today, one good and one bad. The bad obviously being between Sherlock and Lestrade.  
John almost spat out the name of the detective inspector with venomous tones, so he is obviously jealous. And that means he won’t just give up what he has waiting for him at home in Baker Street. Because John Watson, war veteran and soldier to the core doesn’t leave without a fight. If it is Sherlock or Lestrade who will have to face that fact tomorrow will be anyone’s guess.

When Mike wakes up the next morning John is still snoring on the sofa in the living room. He will probably be out for a couple of hours still, so Mikes writes him a note, informing him of where the Aspirin is, to drink lots of fluids and to leave the key to the apartment under the welcoming mat in front of the door. Classic place, first place for burglars to look for it and Sherlock would scoff at him if he knew. But Sherlock isn’t here, Mike’s late for work and John Watson is sleeping the sleep of the very hung over on his couch, right now he has no time to come up with a better place.

Around noon John wakes up and feels like he hasn’t felt for many years, maybe not since University: confused, hung over, guilty and angry at the same time and extremely anxious to get back to Baker Street as fast as he can.  
Because why on earth would running away result in anything satisfactory?  
He had Sherlock Holmes pinned to the carpet of their living room yesterday, they shared a kiss and were about to start sharing even more but today he is lying on Mike Stamford’s couch with a stiff neck, a foul breath and the headache from hell. That’s just stupid and he can’t even blame Lestrade for it because he chose this on his own.  
Well, time to get things right again. He does care why there is a picture of Lestrade and Sherlock kissing in today’s paper (he hasn’t seen it but that’s what the reporter said would happen) and he doesn’t like the fact that it makes his blood boil thinking about it. But he is going to let Sherlock explain. Eventually.  
After he has pinned him to carpet again and claimed what he never got around to claim yesterday.


	2. Will they ever get it on?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and the events of the kiss.

Sherlock is standing by the window with his back to the room when Lestrade enters.

Dusk has begun to cast shadows in the room, the only light coming from a small lamp by the desk, otherwise the room is cast in darkness, making the person standing by the window looking ominous and slightly spooky.  
He is clad in a shirt, accentuating his slim frame and Lestrade feels his pulse accelerating a bit as his eyes travel over the other man’s silhouette.  
This is **not** good, he thinks to himself because this is not why he’s here and at the same time it is exactly this, his feelings for Sherlock that has brought things to it’s edge. Because there are so many “shouldn’t” between them now, most recently Lestrade going for that kiss earlier today. He doesn’t even know why de did it. Or, of course he knows, because Sherlock was looking temptingly delectable this morning, but on the other hand he always does and Lestrade has made a point of not acting on his feelings. And yet, he did this time.  
It was like watching a train derail without being able to stop it although he himself was the very train crashing into Sherlock, aiming for those full lips, pushing his tongue in and everything. 

During the very first second he could even pretend that his feelings were reciprocated because it took Sherlock a moment to comprehend what was happening. He must have been tired or something because Sherlock always sees everything, can predict all actions from people around him but not this time. So, for a full second Lestrade actually enjoys the kiss. Then his brain catches up with his actions and Sherlock stiffens beneath his touch and violently pulls away.  
But the inevitable reprimands never come, because as they part, still panting and the surprise in Sherlock’s eyes evident, there is movement in their line of sight.  
A young girl with brown hair, a backpack, Dr Martens on her feet and a camera phone aimed at them, smiling lopsided because just like Lestrade can’t fathom what he has just done, this girl is equally surprised by her sheer luck.  
Ever since Sherlock started appearing in the press his fame has risen, he is beginning to become an internet sensation of sorts and this girl probably recognised him. There is no other explanation for the positively gleeful expression on her face as she was holding her phone in their direction, documenting the kiss.  
And before either of them can assemble themselves enough to react she starts off in a run, disappearing around the corner. 

“Hey!” Lestrade yells and goes running after her, because what the hell?  
But as he turns the corner she is way ahead of him, soon disappearing into the crowd further ahead. He keeps trying to chase her a little while longer although he already knows it pointless, she is nowhere in sight.  
As he returns to where he came from Sherlock is gone. 

He goes back to his office, feelings all over the place but showing his usual calm self on the outside, nobody notices anything strange about him.  
“Where’s Holmes?” Donovan asks him as he is about to escape into his own office, “I thought you were coming back here together?”  
“Oh, you know how he is. Dashed off somewhere. I’ll call him later.” And with that he disappears in to his room, ignoring her questioning look, locks the door for once, pulls the blinds so no one can observe him from the outside and then buries his face in his hands.  
Could he possibly have complicated things more if he tried? What the hell had he been thinking, assaulting Sherlock like that?  
Granted it was just a kiss, but still. He feels utterly embarrassed and scared of what this will mean for their future relationship.  
Because he has settled for what they have between them for a long time now, he should have been able to stand by those rules, keep it professional with a hint of friendship and camaraderie, nothing else.  
But obviously some other part of his mind thought otherwise and hasn’t he just completely mucked up everything now? 

He can't help but to blame John Watson.  
There has been some tension lately between him and Sherlock. Lestrade doesn’t know what it is about but it has resulted in John not coming along on cases as much, this morning being a perfect example of that.  
“He’s at work,” had been Sherlock’s terse reply when Lestrade asked about it. 

Lestrade knows how John feels about Sherlock, it’s obvious, takes one to know one and all that.  
And he has been afraid that one day Sherlock will see what everyone else sees and reciprocate those feelings.  
But as the new friction between them developed, the stupid, irrational part of Lestrade’s brain, the one that insists on harbouring feelings for a person who hasn’t shown him any interest in returning those feelings, whispers in his ear that this might be his chance, that he should just go for it and so he did. And look where that landed him.

During the day he tries ringing Sherlock but gets no reply, he even goes by the flat but no one except Mrs Hudson is at home and he can’t stand staying there, waiting for Sherlock to return. Or worse, face John.  
So he returns to work, goes about his business as usual, talks to his colleagues about the case they are currently investigating and acts as if this morning never happened. If Donovan gives him a funny look once in a while he ignores it and they manage to go about the case without bringing up the obvious absence of Sherlock Holmes, most of his team actually seem relieved that he isn’t there.

Eventually, as people are either heading home for the day or leave to continue the investigation elsewhere, he gathers his things and heads over to Baker Street.  
Better to take the bull by the horn, sort this out, apologize if necessary and hopefully try to get past this. Because they both need each other. The crime victims of London need them to keep working together, Sherlock’s brain needs the stimulation and Lestrade needs the help.  
He has almost completed the prepared speech he’s going to deliver when he enters the flat and sees Sherlock standing like a wraith by the window. The sight makes all words abandon his brain and he wishes that he would have kept pretending that everything was normal. Because he’s not sure he can do this.  
Sherlock doesn’t turn but there is a slight stiffness to his spine as Lestrade enters the room so he knows he’s there. As Lestrades steps further inside, grateful for the absence of John Watson and is about to start speaking Sherlock suddenly twirls around and faces him.

“Lestrade…”, he drawls, sounding exactly like he always does, fixing the detective inspector with his piercing gaze. “How’s the case going? Any new developments?”  
Lestrade freezes for a second, so prepared to deliver an apology and some chosen words to help clear the air that he almost starts reciting his prepared speech automatically before catching himself and changes tracks.

“Hm, yes…Well, we gathered as much as possible from the crime scene, Anderson and his team are still working on it I believe, and the witness was taken in for questioning…” He interrupts himself, unsure if he should go on, but Sherlock motions him to continue with a wave of his hand while seating himself in his chair, closing his eyes. So Lestrade continues, Sherlock asks the occasional question and order is temporarily back between them.  
Lestrade doesn’t ask where John is and Sherlock doesn’t mention it either, they simply go over the case, Lestrade leaning against the desk to keep his distance from Sherlock, he really can’t bear looking in to the consulting detective’s eyes right now.  
During their discussion he removes his scarf, puts it on the surface of the desk and forgets about it lying there as he leaves 40 minutes later, relief and happiness fighting for domination inside him. Sherlock promises to look into the case tomorrow if they gather information interesting enough to warrant him giving it his attention. His imperious words are still ringing in Lestrade’s ears as he steps out into the cool evening air, heading home.

Past noon the next day heavy foot steps can be heard working their way up the stairs and eventually a tired-looking, slightly sweaty John Watson appears in the doorway. He looks as hung-over as he actually is and his gait is slightly wobbly as he enters the flat. Sherlock is sitting by the desk, writing something on the computer and doesn’t bother to look up, so John walks up to him and stops just by the edge of the table.

He is still feeling determined to clear the air but other more physical matters such as slight nausea, dehydration and the beginning of a headache makes his thought process slow, searching for the right word but coming up empty. Sherlock continues to type so John tears his eyes away from him, letting them wander over the messy desk, while continuing to look for a good opening line. Sherlock is obviously not going to provide any assistance in that matter.  
He reaches out his hands to steady himself against the desk and feel something soft beneath his left hand. Looking down is almost a hardship in his condition but he does it nonetheless and sees something that makes him frown at first, as if not comprehending what it is that he’s seeing. On the desk, beneath his fingers, lies a black and grey scarf, bundled up in a pile and even if he hasn’t seen it on many occasions he immediately recognizes it. 

It’s Lestrades.

As he still looks at it Sherlock turns his head, sees what John is staring at and a slight dilation of his eyes convey his surprise, quickly replaced with nervousness.  
John knows full well that it wasn’t there yesterday. He sat by the desk yesterday, he would have noticed it, which means Lestrade was here when John had left.  
And just like that all his good intentions fly out the window.  
Without a word he circles the desk, yanks Sherlock out of his chair and grabs him by his shirt. He can hear Sherlock say something about John drawing the wrong conclusions, but John can’t really bother to listen through the haze of anger surging his suddenly invigorated body.  
With a firm grip of the shirt he pushes Sherlock to the floor and then lowers himself on top of the sprawling body beneath him.  
This what not really what he had in mind when he left Mike Stamford’s home half an hour ago but the results are the same. Sherlock is lying on the same carpet as he did yesterday and John is already panting from exertion. 

Too bad he’s too angry right now to even consider their proximity, the way his heart hammers like crazy in his chest and the glint in Sherlock’s eye.

Downstairs a key is inserted to the lock of the front door and a moment later it quiety swings open, letting a new guest enter the house.


	3. Made to see reason or succumbing to threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another interruption.

Mycroft climbs the seventeen steps up to Sherlock and John’s flat with heavy steps.  
It’s not only from the effort that he’s treading slowly, he’s not particularly keen on facing whatever scene is playing out between his brother and his flatmate. At least he can’t hear any shouting.  
He’s informed that they are both at home so maybe they’re playing the silent game instead, Sherlock is an expert at that particular game when he wants to be.  
Mycroft can still recall his brother as a child, staying silent for days as punishment for some perceived slight. Mycroft usually could manage it the first day or two, even revelling in the unusual quietness around their family home. But of course Sherlock knew how to turn his silence into an oppressive atmosphere not even Mycroft could finally stand any longer. So, by day three or four he would have to succumb and through gritted teeth apologize, if mostly for the sake of their parents who thought their quarrelling was tiresome.

Up on the landing he takes a deep breath before opening the door into the flat. 

What he sees makes his eyebrows shoot up and a slight gasp escapes his lips. It’s the most expressive he’s been for months, a testament to how truly shocked he is by the picture presented in front of him.  
John Watson has his younger brother pinned to the floor, hands in vicelike grips around Sherlock’s wrists, sitting on top of him with legs on either side of his body. At first Mycroft mistakes it for a genuine old-fashioned scuffle, John Watson looks impossibly incandescent with supressed rage and Mycroft can see how his grip is firm, making imprints on Sherlock’s skin. But a second later he can see something else and embarrassed he turns his eyes away.  
Because despite his evident rage the good doctor is also very hard, his stiff member pressing against the fabric of his trousers, obvious for anyone with Mycroft’s scrutinizing observational skills. And half a second later he sees that Sherlock is very aware of this fact too and that explains why he is letting his flatmate pin him to the floor in the first place. 

The tableau only lasts for a second or two even if it feels like much longer for Mycroft, then the two combatants on the floor become aware of his presence and like being struck by lightning they fall apart. John’s face is flushed, by anger, lust and embarrassment in equal measure. Sherlock is of course not embarrassed at all, merely annoyed by the interruption.

He remains lying on the floor as John gets up quickly, brushing his knees as if them being dusty is what Mycroft would frown upon and not the fact that he has just been on top of Mycroft’s little brother.  
No one knows what to say, and that’s saying much considering that Mycroft always knows what to say. He did know about John’s infatuation with Sherlock of course, it’s been evident for a long time now, but he never believed it would be acted upon. Especially not after the photos of Sherlock and Lestrade kissing. He expected shouting, anger, accusations perhaps but this…? No.

He mentally shakes his head and clears his throat before turning his eyes down to Sherlock who just remains lying on the floor, clearly displeased with the interruption. Mycroft’s not sure what his brother really feels for his flatmate but obviously he had been willing to engage in something physical with the man. The question is if it’s only to scratch an itch, to satisfy his curiosity?  
John Watson is definitely not he kind of person who would be content to shag a couple of times and then let Sherlock move on to the next curiosity that comes along. It would be the end of their flatsharing for sure. 

When no one still hasn’t said anything Sherlock finally sighs and rises himself so he’s resting on his elbows.  
“What do you want, Mycroft?”  
That kickstarts Mycroft again, the world rights itself, order is resumed. Younger brothers and their snarkiness, it’s familiar and strangely comforting and Mycroft knows how to deal with that. So he puts on his bland face, as if this whole scenario is utterly beneath him. It is in fact utterly beneath him, the situation doesn’t require much acting on his part and he steps right in, claiming the room, ignoring Sherlock on the floor, ignoring the flushed face of John Watson even more and just exudes pompousness.  
“I’m here because I was alerted to a certain article in the press…,” he begins but is interrupted by Sherlock who groans and waves his hand imperially, as if shooing away a fly.  
“It’s a tabloid, Mycroft, nothing that concerns anyone in this room.”  
John turns his head to look down on him as he speaks. It’s clear that he doesn’t agree with Sherlock. What is also clear is how extremely jealous the doctor seems to be. Mycroft can’t help groaning at this mentally. It was just a kiss for God’s sake!  
Outwardly he shakes his head disapprovingly. 

“What do you think will happen to Lestrade when this reaches his superiors? His relationship with you has always been shaky at best, this takes it to a whole new level.”

“Please,” Sherlock rolls his eyes and finally stands up in an elegantly fluid movement. He straightens his shirt and walks over to the mirror above the fireplace to arrange his tousled hair. “It’s not even what it looks like. This is purely speculative journalism at its lowest point. I’m surprised you even bothered with it, you know how the press works.”

“But we also know how you work.”

John has finally collected himself enough to participate in the conversation. Sherlock glares at him.

“You’ve not even bothered to hear my explanation. Same goes for you.”

He turns to Mycroft now, still all sharp tongued and acidic tones but something in his face betrays a slight weariness, like his suddenly tired of this whole mess. Mycroft knows that face. He has had a lifetime of seeing it whenever Sherlock has made a mess of things, usually without foreseeing the result in advance and therefore even more irritated with the results.  
It’s the ”Let’s all ignore it until it goes away”-face but John is obviously not having any of it.  
Even if he has managed to calm himself in the presence of Mycroft there is still rage simmering beneath the surface. It’s tempting to leave Sherlock to his mercy but at the same time Mycroft has read the file on John Hamish Watson and knows what a temper the man possesses. There was that incident in Afghanistan …  
No, he decides against it and instead of retreating he steps further into the flat, walks over to the two chairs facing each other in front of the mantle piece and after a quick assessment sits himself down in John’s chair.  
Sherlock groans loudly and dramatically at this, because he knows Mycroft’s modus operandi and he would probably like to solve this on his own, physical damages be damned, but Mycroft won’t allow it. John might be sexually turned on by Sherlock and the heat of the moment might lead places that eventually would be beneficial for all of them, but at the same time, judging by the shape John seems to be in, hung over and brimming with both jealousy and rage, there is a chance that he won’t be able to see things rationally.  
He’s not likely to listen to Sherlock’s half arsed attempts at explaining himself and he will probably not believe a word of it any way. Things could just as well turn really ugly and lead to this flat sharing arrangement to end. Mycroft is not willing to give up the security it means to have someone live with his little brother, look after him and keep him safe. But this love business, with emotions running all over the place, might ruin the balance that they have, feelings are likely to get hurt and everything always turns messy in the end. Better stay off it altogether. 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock hisses but Mycroft just steels himself and produces his blandest expression. 

“If you’re not willing to discuss Detective Inspector Lestrade, let’s see this as a social visit made out of brotherly concern.”  
“I know all about your brotherly concern. You’re just here to spy on me. It’s oppressing and you’re putting John off too.”

“Don’t involve me in this.”

Mycroft turns toward the doctor as he speaks.

“You’re already involved, doctor Watson. My suggestion is that you take a walk outside to calm yourself or indulge in a refreshing shower. Your appearance is a bit… rumpled.”

John opens his mouth angrily but closes it again without saying anything. Instead he stomps out of the living room, down the hall to the bathroom and slams the door behind him with a loud bang. When the shower is being turned on minutes later Mycroft finally turns his full attention to his brother and tuts disapprovingly.

“Even by your standards, and I admit I never thought your interest in wreaking havoc would ever include such messy business as matters of carnal pleasure, you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

He can see Sherlock tensing but for once no barb is coming from his brother’s lips. A clue on it’s own how rattled he is by these developments. So Mycroft ventures forth. If he’s lucky he will have Sherlock heading for the door within minutes, maybe less.

“I always thought you would push the poor doctor to his limit, but I must admit I never predicted this particular method. Sex? Really, I thought you had better sense. It’s enough that you unhinged the detective inspector…”  
“I haven’t! He attacked me!”  
“Just like that?”  
“Just like that!”  
“For no apparent reason? How curious…” Mycroft lets the sarcasm drop from every syllable.

Sherlock spins around to face him now and Mycroft meets his gaze calmly. 

“Do you think I don’t know about your little…” nightly adventure” with him a few years back?. And how you now repay him by sleeping with his staff, left and right to shake him off? It clearly not going according to plan. Quite contrary I would say. “

“This is none of your business, Mycroft!”

“It becomes my business when your childish games provoke the quite alarming feelings of rage and violence in your flatmate towards you. Like I said, I always thought he would snap, but not over something like this and not with such intensity.”

“I had it under control.”

“Clearly. And how do you propose to continue with this mess? I think it is fairly likely doctor Watson will feel inclined to move out of here unless you solve this.”

Sherlock hisses like a put-upon cat cornered by a dog, probably because he can see that Mycroft might be right. If he doesn’t deal with this delicately it may all blow up in his face. 

“I was dealing with it. Until you walked in here, sticking your abnormally large nose into something that doesn’t concern you whatsoever. Leave!”  
Mycroft just shakes his head. He's not leaving. 

“Then I will!”

With a swivel he’s out the door and Mycroft afford himself a small smile to play on his lips. Not even two full minutes. Sherlock must really be stressed.

When John returns from the bathroom ten minutes later, flushed and with wet hair spiking in every direction but at least noticeably calmer, he is met by the sight of only Mycroft still reclining in his chair, no sign of Sherlock.  
“Where’s Sherlock?”  
Despite his effort to sound as calm as he wants to present himself there is a tinge of anxiousness in his voice and Mycroft really has to pity the man. To be a victim of such base feelings as jealousy, it’s deplorable.  
“He needed to clear his head and went for a walk.”  
John clearly doesn’t believe him.  
“Just like that?”  
“Yes. And I suggest you make use of the time he’s gone to reign in your feelings, doctor Watson. It was rather difficult to ascertain whether you were going to beat him senseless or assault him sexually when I walked through the door. “

John immediately gets an irritated look in his eyes again, not violent but certainly incensed. He’s never liked Mycroft, from the very first meeting in the warehouse there has been suspicion and wariness on John’s part towards Mycroft and it has never really disappeared. Mycroft doesn’t care. That John doesn't blush or turn his eyes away does him credit though, it would actually be impressive if it wasn't so stupid at the same time. 

“I know it’s difficult to put up with my brother at the best of times, and even worse when things he does affect you personally. I also understand how difficult it can be for a person to have feelings for someone like him, just ask Molly Hooper or DI Lestrade, it never gets any easier with time either apparently. “  
John draws a heavy breath. It’s probably the name of Lestrade that provokes it, it’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull.  
Mycroft shakes his head.

“Despite that, no one has appreciated your presence in his life more than I have. As a friend he’s never had before, a companion and yes, even as a conscience and moral compass he certainly lacked before your arrival. I’m in no position to force you to stay, not really, but I think this little arrangement of yours have been just as beneficial for you as well. You are good for each other. On a platonic level."  
He watches John's eyes brim with anger towards him now but doesn't hesitate.  
"Therefore, I request you to rein this in before it goes too far.”  
John shakes his head vehemently.

“There isn’t anything going on.”

“No. Not yet. But there will be if you let it. From the look on Sherlock’s face he would let you choose the direction yourself, pain or pleasure, but I assure you, it won’t last.”  
“You don’t know that.”  
It’s the first official admittance that John has said out loud, even if his feelings have been blatant for some time now. Mycroft savour the moment, people so seldom man up to uncomfortable truths.  
“But I do. Because it never lasts with Sherlock. It's not in his nature. Besides…”  
Mycroft rises from the chair and suddenly he’s looming ominously over John. To his credit the doctor doesn’t move, he just pushes his chin forward in defiance. 

“…if you do chose to continue with this and end up hurting him, you’ll have me to explain yourself to.” The glint of teeth flashes by, gone the next second.  
“Are you threatening me?” John looks at him incredulously.  
“Merely laying bare the price of taking thing further with my little brother. Your own choice entirely of course.”  
With that he strides out of the room, leaving John in his wake, considering what he’s just been told.


	4. Embarrassing encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade has an embarrassing encounter while contemplating his situation.

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he sat down in the canteen of S:t Bart’s to wait for the pathologist to deliver the autopsy results of a victim from his most recent case. Thankfully it wasn’t a particularly difficult case, he didn’t need to contemplate asking Sherlock Holmes to help him solve it, but a nagging voice at the back of his head tutted at him and sarcastically informed him that soon enough he would be forced to face that dilemma.  
Deep down he knew Sherlock wouldn’t turn him down, after all he seemed to be opting for ignorance when it came to the kiss and The Work was always his number one priority no matter the circumstances, but still. Lestrade wasn’t looking forward to it. And even worse, he wasn’t looking forward to facing John Watson either.  
It was akward just thinking about it and he pinched even harder to shake the image from his head, shutting his eyes as if afraid that the army doctor would emerge if he looked around the half-empty canteen closely enough. 

He sat there for a full minute, eyes closed, supressing any unwanted images from his too imaginative mind, feeling the skin on the bridge of his nose begin to tingle under the pressure from his fingers.  
As he finally opened eyes and let his hand fall down to cradle the lukewarm cup of coffee he had bought earlier he startled at the sight of a figure looming in front of him, on the other side of the table. 

Molly Hooper.

It was not like he had avoided her on purpose, he didn’t always use her after all when they needed help from a pathologist, but the fact that he hadn’t bothered to even check if she was available was a sure sign that he didn’t want to meet her right now. Like everyone else, he knew how she felt about Sherlock and he always hoped he never came off looking like that despite sharing the same feelings.  
Because she was so obvious, her heart on her sleeve for everyone to see and Donovan had once confessed that she wanted to slap Molly hard in the face for being so foolish and silly around Sherlock.  
“Must be something that’s contagious by the way”, she had added, giving her boss a meaningful look but she didn’t elaborate and he ignored it.  
He knew how she felt, she didn’t like how he invited the consulting detective to their cases, let him take charge of the investigations when Lestrade himself should be doing that job and she definitely didn’t like how lenient Lestrade was towards him, with his rude behaviour and superior attitude, but surely he wasn’t projecting his feelings as openly as Molly Hooper at least? Donovan couldn’t possibly know why Lestrade behaved the way he did around Sherlock. Right?

He looked up and met Molly’s eyes quickly and then swivelled his gaze to the side. He knew it looked suspicious but he couldn’t face seeing the questioning look on her face.  
She had seen the picture then.

He heard himself clearing his throat but not offering her to sit down so she remained standing in front of him and the silence stretched for so long without anyone saying anything that it actually became embarrassing eventually.  
He finally succumbed first.

“Nice to see you, Molly. Care to join me? I’m waiting for Dr Singh to come and deliver an autopsy report.”

He chanced a quick glance at her face and saw slight suspicion in her features, as if seeing him for the first time.  
Maybe that was actually the case.  
When Sherlock was around she never had eyes for anyone else and when Lestrade came alone they only exchanged case related information. He was probably only “the cop who knew Sherlock” to her, although they had met many times during the years.  
He wondered if he should explain why he had asked for Dr Singh instead of her but decided against it, he would probably muck it up somehow, make it all even more awkward than it already was. Besides, he didn’t have a plausible reason to give her anyway.

She sat down and put her hands in front of her.  
She came off as nervous and a bit insecure, even more so when Sherlock was around, but also on other occasions, she was by nature skittish in her own skin, but now she seemed strangely calm. Determined. 

“So…I saw the picture,” she began.

Sigh.

Ok, straight ahead then.  
No point denying anything really, the picture said everything.  
Sure, he could try to fabricate some story about it being for a case but he was a terrible liar, that was much more Sherlock’s area. No point in even trying.  
So he just cleared his throat and nodded his head without replying. What could he say anyway?  
When she understood he wasn’t going to say anything she jutted her face forward stubbornly. 

“Never understood that the two of you…I mean…that he was…”

“Gay?”

“Taken.”

“Oh…”

The confusion was evident on both of their faces. This was Molly Hooper trying to figure out if her pretend-boyfriend had been someone else’s boyfriend all along while Lestrade struggled to save the small scraps of dignity he had left by trying to downplay the whole incident. But at the same time he felt sorry for her. He knew what it felt like, loving Sherlock Holmes and clambering to every small sign of hope there was.  
He might just as well be honest.

“No. Look, that picture is not what it looks like.”

She frowned, even more confused, if possible.

“You’re not together?”

He shook his head.

“Definitely not.”

“So what is it then?”

He sighed.

“Me making a fool of myself.”

That changed her demeanour. Her face softened.  
Oh god, this was so humiliating. He took a huge gulp of the frankly appalling coffee while a small smile started forming on her lips. She was clearly relieved. Her fantasy could resume now. Maybe he was doing her an injustice by telling the truth because now she would likely never move on. 

“I always thought you were married. To a woman,” she finally said.

“Look. We’re not an item, me and Sherlock. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing and no one’s more embarrassed than me. If you don’t mind I would just like to forget and move on. “

“Yes…of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to…I just. Well, you know, when I saw the picture I was very surprised…”

Jealous more like it Lestrade thought but didn't say. He wondered who else was fuming when looking at him locking lips with Sherlock in that picture.  
John Watson?

That man always had an aura of pent up emotions simmering beneath the surface, like he could blow up if provoked. And wasn't this just the type of provocation that would make the usually calm army doctor lose his temper in seconds?  
Probably...

“I didn’t mean to pry,” she offered, “I just felt a little blind-sided. Never thought the two of you were an item, you never acted like one before, so naturally I felt a little…well, deceived. Sorry, I shouldn’t…”  
She was back to her stammering insecure self again and he sighed inwardly. Couldn't she just leave already?

“…I didn’t want to offend. Just…”

She hesitated and when nothing else came he couldn't help but look up at her expectantly.  
She looked really uncertain now but at the same time something was on her mind, something she didn't seem able to drop.  
He could see the exact second she decided to go for it. Her cheeks blushed slightly and she leaned forward as if to minimize the risk of someone overhearing despite the fact that no one was within earshot from where they were sitting. The closest person was several tables away, an old woman in a lab coat, fully engrossed with something on her phone and unaware of her surroundings. 

“…what was it like?”

He blinked several times while trying to wrap his head around her question.  
Was she asking him what kissing Sherlock Holmes was like? Her curiousity must have gotten the best of her because....really? He was frankly baffled. She was looking eagerly at him now and he scrambled for something to say when a folder suddenly landed between them with a small thud and broke their intimacy. Molly instantly retreated in her chair and Lestrade looked up from the folder startled, seeing Dr Singh standing there. Where did he come from?

“All finished, Inspector. Typical signs of suffocation, as you suspected. “  
Molly rose and started making her excuses. Dr Singh gave her a glance but then continued to speak about the autopsy results. They never seemed like close colleagues, he probably resented her connection to Scotland Yard, mostly being stuck doing more ordinary autopsies, if there was such a thing as ordinary autopsies. Or maybe he had tried to ask her out once, but had failed to catch her attention? Difficult to be noticed if you were standing in the same room as someone like Sherlock. Lestrade shook his head, this was all speculations and none of his concern anyway.  
He didn't know if he felt relieved or not by the interruption. Because frankly, it might have been nice talking about it with someone who would understand exactly how the feeling of kissing Sherlock Holmes might go straight to your head, clouding every sense of logic and reality, for just a second of those warm lush lips pressing against yours.

He sighed and turned his attention back to Dr Singh. It was exactly this type of foolish wishful thinking that got him in this situation in the first place – a laughing stock at the Yard and everyone else too for that matter, and with a very awkward relationship with Sherlock Holmes. And even worse, he dreaded the next time he would stand face to face with Mycroft Holmes or John Watson.  
Which one would make him regret that kiss the most?


	5. A miscalculation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes decision but ends up questioning if it's the right one.

The problem with sticking to a plan was of course when the other participant wasn’t really in on the strategy and therefor had an agenda of his own.

John was determined to abandon any ideas he had about doing anything with his feelings for Sherlock.  
It would get messy, things would get complicated and more importantly, he could risk losing Sherlock both as a flatmate and a friend if things didn’t end well.  
With a small but still solid history of broken relationships behind him he knew how easily something that looked like a good idea at the beginning could unravel, and quickly too. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t even know if Sherlock would be amenable for a relationship with him. He had seen no indication of it and even if Sherlock might be curious that wasn't the same as acctually jumping into a relationship with someone.

There were too many uncertainties to consider and even if he hated the idea of Mycroft being right, he had to concede that the man probably knew a thing or two about his erratic brother. Worst case scenario would obviously be if Sherlock treated their relationship like an experiment, a source for knowledge and experience and when growing bored, as Mycroft claimed he would be, moved on to the next experiment, without concern for John’s feelings.  
Sherlock was not a cruel man and would not have the intention of hurting John deliberately, but even so, he was no expert on human nature and feelings, so it was still a very likely outcome.

Rather than risk getting his heart broken or at least his pride wounded from that experience John decided not to risk it.  
If Lestrade actually was an issue and he was seeing Sherlock on a more romantic level, John would have to work through his jealousy, however difficult that though seemed.  
No more wrestling Sherlock down on the carpet, no more temper tantrums and alcohol binges because of his hurt pride and closeted emotions. He had to get his act together and fast, this situation had spiralled out of control ever since he found out about Sherlock’s sex life.  
And in reality, it had nothing to do with him who Sherlock slept with. Of course it felt iffy to consider Sherlock sleeping with Donovan and Dimmock to get a point across to Lestrade, it was quite frankly stomach-turning if he really gave it a thought, but he couldn’t afford to let that be an issue between them and so decided to try forgetting all about it.

But this way of thinking highlighted the biggest flaw of his plan.  
Because intentions and actual behaviour are two completely different things and however determined he was of making things work, go back to how everything had been a couple of weeks ago, he could not control Sherlock Holmes and he, as it seemed, had quite a different agenda.

When Sherlock returned to the flat later that evening John started by apologising for his rough behaviour without going into the reasons behind it and Sherlock, who never was a person keen on talking through issues and arguments, just nodded and seemingly accepted the apology without John actually saying the words.  
They ordered dinner, watched some tv and things slotted into their usual pattern without any true effort. The next day a client showed up and they immersed themselves in that scenario for the following couple of days and things were like they had always been, more or less.

With the exception of a small detail that to begin with took John a while to notice but after the case was solved, became much harder to ignore.  
Sherlock mostly behaved like he always had been, but small changes in his behavioural pattern started to wear down John’s tolerance and resolve when the thrill of the case disappeared and he was stuck in everyday life with a man he had secretly lusted for ever since they moved in together.  
However determined John was to ignore those feelings Sherlock wasn’t making it easy for him, because suddenly he was more tempting than he had ever been before.  
At first it were small details, like coming out of the shower, still dripping wet, the pale smooth skin glistening with water, a towel dangerously low on his narrow hips and those dark curls framing his face, letting rivulets of water travel down his chin to his chest in a way that made John want to reach out and follow the pattern with his fingers. Or his tounge.  
Sherlock had always had an uncomplicated relationship to his own body and its exposure to his surroundings, so the half-nudity in itself wasn’t anything new. But it was the way he was doing it now, flaunting his nakedness (at least according to John), involving wetness to make his skin look more appealing, the accidental slip of his towel that almost revealed everything underneath, but was prevented by a last second catch of his fingers to the hem of the towel. And then of couse his seeming obliviousness to the effect his exposed body was having on John.  
It was new experience and highly distracting to John’s resolve to remain a friend and flatmate only. 

Other dangerous distractions would be Sherlocks use of his mouth.  
He never ate during cases but the very first night after the case was solved he seated himself on the sofa, cross-legged with a bowl of cherries in his lap.  
The cherries had been bought by Mrs Hudson earlier, she always tried to include some healthier alternatives to their normal intake of take away, toast and tea by sometimes bringing them fruit, and this time she had bought some cherries and even, despite claiming not to be their housekeeper, made the effort to pit them before serving them to her tenants.  
Nine times out of ten the fruit decayed in the bowl before someone (usually Mrs Hudson herself) threw them out. Occasionally John would succumb to her efforts and eat a pear to please her, but Sherlock never touched the fruit, except sometimes for experimenting on them.

But this particular evening he sat with the bowl in his lap and started to eat the cherries while seemingly distracted by something on his computer.  
It could be argued that Mrs Hudson never had bought cherries before and maybe they were a particular favourite of Sherlock's, but the fact that he not only took the whole bowl in his lap but also ate the offered berries while seemingly enjoying them was something so rare and unexpected that it immediately caught John's attention, and if that wasn’t enough, it was also the way he ate them that made the lower part of John's abdomen tingle with a nervous energy.  
Sherlock made eating cherries looking straight out obscene, slowly bringing each berry to his luscious lips, making a small, almost succulent noise before closing his mouth and thoughtfully starting to chew the ripe flesh.  
John breatlessly observed his mouth working on the cherries before finally swallowing them, turning the focus to the throat that visually moved, making the Adam’s apple bobble, before starting the process all over again by lowering a delicate hand into the bowl, pick a new cherry to slowly bring to his lips.  
It was mesmerizing and frankly obscene to watch, soon enough driving John from their living room up the stairs to his own bedroom to calm himself by throwing open his window and letting the chill evening air cool him down.  
He wasn’t stupid enough to think that he would suddenly stop lusting after Sherlock after doing so for the better part of their flatsharing days, but he was determined not to indulge his fantasies like he had in the past. So no wanking to these new images was allowed and therefore John Watson soon became a very horny but also a very frustrated man, both sexually and emotionally.

It took him almost a week and a half to catch on to what type of game Sherlock was playing and he when he realised he was having none of it. 

Sherlock was putting on his best seduction act and it was driving John crazy, even when he figured out what the purpose of that game was.  
Something had obviously been awoken within Sherlock.  
It might have been John’s possessive streak, the violence or the sheer adrenalin of wrestling on the floor, the proximity and the pounding of their hearts in tandem, always interrupted just before the real action could begin.  
He had to admit it had been arousing, the feel of Sherlock beneath him, laying there on his back, arms pinned to the floor.  
But no….this was something that might intrigue Sherlock at the moment, but it was unlikely to last. Sherlock lost interest in things of high intellectual importance frequently so how could something as base as sex and emotions survive his attention span for longer than a second?

As hard as it was to supress his feelings and urges, it was what he had to do, despite Sherlock ramping up the game even more for every passing day.  
John finally caved in and wanked in the shower one morning when Sherlock was still asleep, just to release some of the tension, and if Sherlock could read the signs on him later in the day and smirked slightly at the sight, John didn’t care, it felt good to at least be rid of some sexual frustration. 

_"I can do this. It will pass eventually. I just need to stick it out and he will grow bored of his games soon enough." _  
That was what he kept telling himself when Sherlock for the umptieth time walked through the flat in nothing but underpants, wild riot of dark curls bouncing on his head, temptation written all over him. John tried hiding behind a paper and ate his fifth toast of the day, supressing his sexual needs by stuffing his face instead and taking long showers afterwards. If gaining a few pounds to prove a point, so be it. He was not prepared to cave in.__

____

But if John Watson was a stubborn man, he had underestimated just how stubborn Sherlock Holmes could be when challenged and just as John was getting the hang of the overeating and the long showers to keep his desires in check, a new ace up his flatmate’s sleeve was thrown upon the table.

This new ace came in the form of a tall, brown-haired city boy in a dark blue suit and an oily smile playing on his lips as he was lingering in the door frame to the living room. John eyed him suspiciously and was awarded with a pompous once-over. There was a mutual dislike between them from the start.  
Sherlock was standing by the table, putting his gloves on, back turned against the both of them. As he swiftly turned around, coat swishing around him, dressed for the evening and still distracted by putting the final touches to his appearance by adjusting his scarf, he gave John a quick glance while motioning in the stranger’s direction with one of his hands.

“John, meet Sebastian Wilkes. We went to uni together and he has contacted me regarding a case. A very interesting one too. Usually I would invite you along instead of wasting valuable time recounting the details afterwards, but he’s offered to talk me through it over dinner. Just the two of us. “

With that he strode towards the door where the stranger stepped back to make room for him to pass. With his mouth open in surprise all John could do was see the two of them disappear down the stairs, followed by the door downstairs slamming shut behind them. 

Quickly he rose from his chair and rushed over to the window. He parted the curtain just in time to see Sebastian Wilkes open the door to a cab, letting Sherlock enter first. Just before doing so his flatmate turned his head, looked up to the window where he met John's eyes.  
It lasted shorter than a second but it made something inside John feel anxious, a nervous flutter in his stomach when looking down at his friend, like he had made a horrendous miscaculation.  
Then suddenly, Sherlock winked, turned his head an disappeared into the cab, followed by his companion, departing into the night.


	6. Dinner date - expectations vs reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian takes Sherlock out to dinner, full of expectations, but soon things take a strange turn.

Sebastian contemplates Sherlock sitting on the other side of the table.

He looks very fine.  
Fit, clothes accentuating that body flawlessly, hair in that dramatic but still very suitable style that suits him so well, framing his face perfectly.  
Sherlock has always looked good, but the years has given him some additional elegance and self-confidence that comes with maturity and that he had not possessed back at university. 

Sure, he has always been an arrogant sod, but in his late teens/early twenties he lacked the panache to fully pull off the attitude and match it with a suitable appearance.  
Sebastian can still recollect the sometimes questionable clothing choices the younger Sherlock had opted for, always going for the slightly dramatic, but without the knowledge of what actually suited him.  
Not that Sebastian had been that aware of appropriate fashion back then either, before money and connections got him the right knowledge of how to dress to impress. 

When he had sent the e-mail, requesting Sherlock’s assistance in a rather delicate matter at Shad Sanderson Bank he wasn't sure if he would even get a reply. Considering how thing ended between them at university he couldn’t hope for much, but still made an attempt.  
Frankly, he has been dying to reach out over the years but it hasn’t been possible until recently.  
Sure, he had heard of Sherlock’s little detective job and he knew that the man lived in London, but still, Sebastian has never had any real reason for contacting him. Not until now.

The break-in at the firm isn’t a huge deal, not really. A breach of security, not one of Sebastian’s responsibilities even, but when he found out, his first thought was to reach out and try contacting Sherlock. He persuaded his bosses that he could handle the issue, sent an e-mail to the address that he found on that strange web site that came up when googling Sherlock’s name and then hoped for a reply, but not fully expecting one. 

To his huge surprise, Sherlock not only replied, he also accepted Sebastian’s invitation to dinner, overtly disguised as an excuse to talk about the case but really, this is nothing short of a date, complete with lit candles at a fancy restaurant, Sebastian in one of his better suits and Sherlock at a surprisingly well-behaved mood. Maybe the man has changed, mellowed a bit? Rumour has it that he is still as arrogant as he used to be, but if he is, he is hiding it well.  
Sebastian is feeling very pleased at the moment. 

The one thing he hasn't really counted on is that short fellow in Sherlock’s flat that Sebastian gets to meet when coming to pick Sherlock up for dinner.  
Who is he?  
Boyfriend?  
No, surely not. If he was, why would he let Sherlock swan off to a dinner just like that with another man? But he does look decidedly unhappy. Maybe he just a jealous flatmate? 

Sebastian can’t help but scoff. Stupid sod. If he has the opportunity to share a flat with someone like Sherlock but doesn’t take the opportunity to make a move, then that’s his loss. _Snooze - you lose_ , as Sebastian’s nephew keeps saying. 

Some time into the dinner, case discussed and glasses filled up, Sebastian tries tossing out some feelers, to see if Sherlock will bite. They haven’t breached anything beyond mere formality yet and Sebastian feels like he should put this into the next gear if he’s going to be able to pull this off. 

To him, Sherlock Holmes is that great white whale that got away, when they were young. They never had anything going on at university, despite his efforts. Sherlock was such an innocent youth then, didn’t catch a single innuendo coming his way, just held onto to his strict professional persona like a drowning person to a lifesaver. Then the drugs entered the picture and Sebastian thought things were going to change, but they didn’t. It just meant that Sherlock cared even less about people, he only lived for chemistry, drugs and experiments. Later, drugs apparently got switched for crime solving instead, which is a relief. Sebastian isn't sure if he can cope with a drug user, however dishy he might look in a tight suit and Byronic curls.

Sebastian can see him starting to squirm where he’s sitting on the other side of their small, intimate table for two. He’s beginning to look slightly impatient. 

Just as Sebastian is about to lean over, going for one of Sherlock’s hands, resting on the table, he becomes aware of a commotion at the entrance of the restaurant. He can’t see what’s causing it at first, but voices are being slightly raised and the maître d looks irritated while addressing someone Sebastian can’t quite see yet.

_Never mind_ he thinks, turning his attention back to the task in front of him, going for the hand now, placing his own above it while searching for Sherlock’s eyes to meet his.

“As you might have guessed…” he starts, not having practiced this exactly but still, he has come here prepared, but getting no further when a man striding through the restaurant in full speed, catches his attention, interrupting his speech. 

It’s that the man from Sherlock’s flat? The short one, with the unhappy face?

Sebastian furrows his brow in surprise and his confused expression makes Sherlock turn to look at what Sebastian is staring at.

But the short man with the formerly unhappy face has already reached their table now, having ploughed his way through the restaurant, an angry maître d in tow as well as two servants, trying to prevent him from getting any further.

“John?” Sherlock exclaims, surprise on full display.

The formerly unhappy-looking man has now exchanged that expression to one of a more angry variety. Not full-on rage or anything, but he looks incensed for some reason and Sebastian releases his grip on Sherlock’s hand to lean back in his chair, automatically backing away from the man’s presence.

“What the hell is going on?” he manages to bark though, looking over to the servants and the maître d who has now reached their table as well.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir. He just barged in, despite our orders for him to leave.”

They grab the man, John apparently, by the shoulders, trying to drag him away while he puts up a resistance. 

“Stop it! I’m telling you, I know that man! His my friend, my flatmate! Sherlock, tell them!”

He looks about ready to punch someone right now and maybe it’s that fact that starts Sherlock into action, prompting the staff to let him go.

When the dust has settled and they have left, John make a show of straightening out his rumpled clothes while Sebastian and Sherlock just look at him. 

“Excuse me, but what are you doing here, John?” Sherlock finally asks, when he realises that the other man isn't offering any explanations. Sebastian can’t tell if he’s annoyed by the intrusion yet, but _he_ sure is. What’s going on here?

“Like you said, Sherlock. It’s a waste of time, you telling me the details of the case afterwards, and I know how you hate inefficiency. So, I thought it might be better if I just came along. That way we can head off, get cracking on the case immediately after this.”

He grabs a chair from a nearby table, plants it firmly between Sherlock and Sebastian and sits himself down.  
He turns to look at Sebastian, a glint of something menacing in his eyes, the lets his gaze linger to the hand that has just seconds ago rested firmly over Sherlock’s.

“Seems like I came just in time!”

With that he reaches for one of the glasses of wine, takes a huge mouthful before putting it down on the table with a determined clinking sound.

“Well, then. Shall we get started?”


	7. Taking the leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's dinner with Sebastian has interupted by John, but what now?

John wants them to leave, they can handle this on their own.

“We usually don’t involve clients in any further capacity than the initial telling of details. We have those now, so your presence is not required at the moment. We will get back to you when we have something to report or the case is solved.”

He knows he’s being rude and even Sherlock is frowning slightly where he’s sitting, all dolled up in his nice suit, curls shining in the light from the candle, for once not saying much. This is normally his part, the abrasive one who can’t behave in his communication with other people, but apparently he’s connecting really well with Sebastian Wilkes.  
Sebastian doesn’t look very pleased at the moment. He has removed his slimy hand at least.  
Just as well, John’s not sure if he can handle watching any intimacies between these two. 

After they left Baker Street, jumping into the cab, John had paced the living room, fuming and worried. His first thought had been to swallow his anger and ignore the whole thing. _This is only Sherlock winding you up and somehow he has managed to find someone willing to assist him in this._

But after thinking it through John felt like he couldn’t be absolutely sure of that.  
The man in the fancy suit had looked decisively eager and eyed Sherlock in an appreciative way. Besides, where would Sherlock find a man willing to play this type of game, just to spite John?  
If Sherlock had really wanted to annoy, he would have chosen Lestrade to come get him, that would have driven John right to the edge. 

No, likely this was a real client with a genuine case.  
A client who supposedly wanted to take Sherlock out to dinner as well. Other clients usually settled with sitting in a chair, telling their story and be done with it, but this one had to show up in a fancy suit and a smarmy smile, all but courting his flatmate, it was extremely annoying. 

The more he thought about it, the more worked up he became.  
Finally succumbing to his inner jealous paranoia about what exactly Sebastian was planning to do with Sherlock, he did something Sherlock would have been proud of, if the circumstances had been different. 

John was going to crash the date. 

Said and done, he searched the internet for Sebastian’s name, striking luck straight away by finding a picture of the man, complete with name and workplace information. After getting a secretary to reveal the name of the restaurant where her employer had booked a table for the evening, John was off, arriving at the place just in time.

After fighting his way inside, he’s now sitting between them, cockblocking to his fullest capacity and ignoring both Sebastian’s angry glare and Sherlock’s stoic expression. He can’t say that he’s pleased with his own actions, a small part of his brain berates him for doing this, but a much bigger part of him fires back: _the man had his hand over Sherlock’s, for God’s sake!_

Finally Sebastian gives up. He pays the bill and tells Sherlock to call him when he’s gotten somewhere with the case.  
John notes that Sebastian very pointedly only addressess Sherlock.

“Keep in touch!” Sebastian finishes when he walks them out of the restaurant, but before Sherlock has the opportunity to respond John interjects with a grumpy: “We’ll be rather busy, no time for that many phone calls unfortunately.”

Sebastian gives John a final glare before leaning forward, shaking Sherlock’s hand.  
His fingers linger a little too long in Sherlock’s, making John grab a hold of his flatmate’s arm in a firm grip and pull him away, while signalling for a cab.  
He doesn’t even know where theyre supposed to be heading, they just need to get away. Now.

A cab finally pulls up and they both get in, silently. 

“Where to?” the cabby asks and Sherlock gives John a questioning look, raising an eyebrow. Clearly he's not offering any suggestions.

John doesn’t know what to say.  
He hasn’t all the details about the case, he doesn’t know where they should be headed and it definitely doesn’t feel like he’s won, despite chasing Sebastian away and getting Sherlock to come with him. 

No, this is exactly what he told himself that he wouldn't do. Get involved. And yet, when his feelings took over there wasn't a rational thought in sight.  
He’s acted purely on account of his emotions and they have clearly gotten the better of him. 

“Baker Street,” he finally says to the cabby. Because he doesn’t have any idea of where else to go. 

Next to him Sherlock looks like he’s sulking. He has sunk into his coat, hands in his pockets and his eyes are narrowed.  
John feels like he should reach out and touch him but doesn’t know if it might be too late for that now. 

“I don’t get you,” he finally says.

“Clearly,” Sherlock murmurs.

“You hate these kinds of things. Food, sitting at tables, _socialising_. Not to mention touching. But maybe it depends on who’s touching you.” John sighs.

“Possibly.” Sherlock concedes, but doesn’t offer anything more.

_Ouch._

John wonders if he should apologise.  
It’s a bit unclear if Sherlock’s upset about being interrupted while working or because he actually liked Sebastian’s hand crawling over his.  
A part of him knows that Sherlock’s hardly interested in Sebastian, but that doesn’t help John losing his calm when provoked. 

He sighs and draws a hand over his face.  
He’s tired now.  
Weeks of battling this, supressing his feelings, fighting not to succumb to temptation.  
And what for?  
So someone else gets to be with Sherlock?  
No, that's not an option, he won’t be able to stand it.

He knows what he should do before the thought is even a fully developed plan in his head.  
Maybe he knew all along but was too scared and stubborn to concede it?  
But now, when faced with the option, he knows this is the only choice. 

Because however terrible it’s going to hurt when Sherlock tires of him, and he isn’t stupid enough to think that can’t happen, the other option is worse.  
The risk that Sherlock finds some one else. 

He turns his head and looks at Sherlock who has sunk even deeper into his coat now, only his nose and curls are visible above the collar.  
With a feeling of falling, his stomach churning with both dread and anticipation, he takes a final thorough breath before leaning towards his flatmate. 

_This is the final time_ , he thinks, _the final time this man is my flatmate. Whatever the outcome he will be something else when this is over._

And then he kisses him.


End file.
